WOVEN INTO YOU
by ravenromance27
Summary: AU. An old chest found in an auction, a decision to aid a friend and an obsession with a name found in an old book would forever change the course of a young boy's life as he battles with choices and challenges all for the chance to attain a love that has waited for him throughout the ages. Would you risk it all for the love of a lifetime?
1. PROLOGUE

**AUTHORS NOTE: Standard Disclaimer applies. The characters belong to Kishimoto-sensei. **

That being said, however, the madness that his characters would be facing and the world they would dwell in whilst in the midst of such mad occasions belong solely to the dark oubliette I proudly call my mind. Any complaints, suggestions or violent reactions must therefore be laid solely at my irritatingly ditsy feet.

Welcome to this dark world I have created. The possibility of this story has consumed me from the moment I have conceived of the idea. I must admit that for the past few weeks I have been enamored with the readings that featured heavily the characters from Kishimoto-Sensei. Poor amateur scribe and itinerant word-merchant that I am, I am but a humble servant to the lure and seduction of my Muse.

Like a siren's inescapable song—she beckons and I come helplessly, inevitably—to her side. Maddening as she is, one cannot escape the lure of inspiration once it invades the imagination until like an inferno that burns everything in its path—it consumes you, completely.

I am hoping that you will give a try to this work. It will feature a style of writing I have not attempted in nearly six years. Here's to hoping I rediscover the knack for weaving words.

Narration

"Dialogue"

_Internal Monologue_

**_Specialized Dialogue_**

* * *

**WOVEN INTO YOU**

* * *

_**PROLOGUE**_

_**What raging fire shall flood the soul?**_

_**What rich desire unlocks its door?**_

_**What sweet seduction lies before us?**_

_**Past the point of no return, the final threshold**_

_**What warm unspoken secrets will we learn?**_

_**Beyond the point of no return**_

_Phantom Of The Opera, "Past The Point Of No Return"_

* * *

**NARUTO (14 years old)**

The estate sale proved to be just like every other one he has been dragged to since he could remember. By the time he turned twelve, he has been to so many sales he couldn't even recall the first one he's been to, but he was fairly certain this wouldn't be his last. At least, not if his partner in crime has any say in the matter. His sense of duty made his attendance mandatory but it was his cursed curiosity that always fueled his intent.

His eyes roamed around the small room used for today's auction, noting the larger than usual venue and the small raised dais where most of the items that would be up for sale would be put on display later in the day. For now the floor was alive and teeming with people milling around, vying for a peek at the lots that will be up for auction, greeting their contacts and sizing up their competitors. The red and white draperies behind the auctioneer's lectern caught his attention and for a few second he wondered why the color called to him so. They weren't even his favorite colors.

_Though if any had asked I couldn't tell them what exactly my favorite was anyways. It's probably orange since I seem to have a ton of stuff in that color and it's soothing in its own way, no matter what idiotic color-blind troglodytes say._

Clearing his mind of the oddly introspective thoughts, he forced his bored gaze to shift around and found amusement creeping up to him when he noted the different people that filled the auction house. There were of course, the usual bevy of crusty old men and batty old women who looked like they were the same age as practically everything else that's up for sale; the bug-eyed academics and eccentric collectors staring at him beadily through thick blurry glasses that looked more the bottom part of a soda bottle than actual lenses; the odd risk takers here and there who were in it for the cheap thrills and the smattering of professional pickers and specialty shop owners that knew best the merchandise they were seeking and what could be found in a sale just like this one.

_Not that it would make a difference to them, the batty old coots. They'd buy anything and everything if it's old enough, tacky enough or weird enough to merit a story or two._

The words sounded scathing and amused inside his head but he knows ultimately only he would know of them. The words that come so easily inside the mad cavern he calls his mind will never go past lips that for some reason have grown used to being sealed. He didn't know if his silence was part of the trauma of the accident that took his family away and left him in a coma that lasted for four months or a defense mechanism on his body's part triggered further by the partial amnesia he woke up with but either way the ability to speak has been lost to him for two years and the desire to speak has not roused since then. His father said that ever since he lost part of his memories he only said a few words before silence finally took over.

_Maybe that's the reason I have some memory of hearing my own voice. I think at one point I must've been able to. And when I temporarily lost it, I lost even the habit of it._

He admits that, aside from the odd looks he gets sometimes for his '_difficult_y', he certainly hasn't missed the skill much. Truth be told, he actually gained a skill to compensate for the one he lost. Not that he needed his voice to get his point across. During those endless months of trauma-enforced muteness his dad did everything to find a cure.

After doctors confirmed that physically there was nothing hindering his vocal tract from producing the necessary sounds and that everything was simply a glitch in his mind, he was forced to learn how to sign to get his messages across. He learned the language quickly, picking up the hand gestures (and a few weird ones aside) with surprising ease. But whenever signing couldn't be done or the person he spoke with didn't know it he learned to make do with the pen and small pad he always kept with him. Whenever writing or sign language were out, he could and was quite creative in using body language and gestures to get his point across. He has resigned himself to the silence of the world from his end of the spectrum and he had the consolation of indulging in his own brand of snarkiness in the privacy of his own head.

_Not that anyone would know that. Even now when I could talk people act as if I didn't. So, really, what difference does it make except surprise a couple of disgusting bigots who make fun of those who really can't?_

However, much to his father's delight, his trauma with his voice, unlike his memories, found a way to be healed. He can speak now, only habit made him reticent to do so. He found no burning need to breach the gap that his silence created since it allowed him leeway in a world that somehow no longer seemed as certain for him. People gave him space once they realize his 'disability' and even when assured that he has the ability to speak, the continued to give him the same polite uneasy smiles that conveyed their true anxiety.

_Why give up the advantage? I certainly operate better with the disadvantage they think I operate under rather than seeing it from my perspective. _

The memory sparked inside him the usual flood of annoyance and disgust. Maybe that's part of the reason why even when he could talk now, he preferred not to. There was something to be said about silence in a conversation he never really realized until he was forced to be quiet. People around him—or in general as far as he could tell—are never quite as comfortable in silence. They twitch and fidget and give away so many tells that it's astonishing how no one ever notices. He has met with countless people during his _silent months_ and he found to his growing amusement just how many of them made a fool of themselves in front of a person they were assured couldn't spill their secrets or talk back.

_Saves me tons of time and I don't doubt it frustrates the hell out of people when they figure they can't do anything to someone one like me. I don't need more of their pity or their scorn. I don't need for them to pretend when their own bodies and their words betray them._

As usual the memory of his self-imposed silence reminded him of why he became temporarily disabled in the first place and that led him down the same dark thoughts that made him clench his fist. Years after the accident, he could still tell whenever people gave him those kinds of looks. He has grown inured to the distrust and pity fairly early on—but he can still feel the glares of condemnation and doubt that pierces through him like a piercing brand every single time—the kind that burns through him like a fiery brand that simply cannot be willed away.

_Like someone would be dumb enough to wish to experience a horrible accident for kicks and giggles. Like I deliberately set up the most appalling way to change my entire life simply because I could. Like I planned to end up disfigured and mute and without a good chunk of my memory for something as paltry as money._

The months of speculation has dwindled into hastily hissed whispers and uneasy looks concealed beneath the shadows by the time had awoken from the coma that the accident induced but that was all the saving grace he was afforded. The accident gave him four months of sleep and then delivered him into a life that had chunks of his mind missing from it, silence from lips can no longer willingly create sounds and skin mottled black and blue from his head to his toes. Well that, and a body that has been stunted at its peak.

For some reason, his body slowed its inevitable growth, a means, the specialist speculated, of equalizing and adapting to the stasis he was forced to be in while he was comatose. The only thing—biologically speaking—that continued to flourish while he slept was his wild mane of hair. By the time he walked out of the hospital his once choppy gilt-edged locks had become a long flowing cascade of golden tresses that reached down to his hips.

_Maybe it's the hair that makes people think I'm weird_, he mused thoughtfully, tugging a few strands of the sunshine-hued mane. His hair certainly caused much of the attention he brought to himself. He didn't really know why he kept his locks long, knowing somehow that he used to wear it in a ragged shaggy mass that used to get into his eyes. It was a bit too long though—though raggedly cut at the ends, it was sleek and fine almost like gold silk.

_Gah! I did not just compliment my hair. Next time around I'll be mentioning my blue eyes, my tan and my ripped abs—argh! That's it! I'm getting mental from all these all farts surrounding me! Next thing I know, there'll be another weird-ass pedo-wanna be stalking me from the shadows!_

Not that the mistake or the possibility were all that unusual either. For some reason he couldn't begin to fathom, his build tend to make people think he was female despite the fact that he certainly displayed that he had the strength of a horse at times and his actions were less refined than a mad bull in a china shop. Even when he opened his month he knows that his words couldn't be anything but rude and abrasive and still he could count in the fingers of one hand the number of times people didn't mistake him for a girl or someone four years younger than his real age.

"Hey son, you doing okay?"

Amusement colored the soft, calm voice that spoke behind him and he whipped around to look at the figure that interrupted his introspection. Cerulean orbs brightened into blinding sapphire when greeted by an equally arresting pair of lambent russet surrounded by dark lashes that fluttered behind clear black wire-framed glasses. A short, lean-limbed man clad in a rumpled dark green oxford shirt and dark jeans, blessed with dark hair tied back in a haphazard pony tail that stuck up behind his head in all direction, complimented by a robust tan complexion and a ready smile completed the charming image of a charmingly forgetful, albeit harassed academic. He flashed his signature grin at his father along with thumbs up to signal his state of health and mind. The pose—silly as it was—assured them both that he was in the pink of health.

"Having fun yet?"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and settled for a few gestures as if to say that he was a bit bored but still kicking.

"Oh what do you mean?"

_**The people here should get some EMS ready Dad, I think I can hear some of their tickers winding down from sheer boredom and just plain being too old. I think one of the old codgers actually was here when the dinosaurs were.**_

As expected, a faint blush bloomed on his father's face, highlighting the small faint, line that ran across the bridge of his nose, a childhood accident that resulted in a thin line-like scar on his face. The mark was an easy means of assessing his father's every emotional state and he used it to his every advantage.

Iruka was a very energetic, charming sort—a rare combination of decent athleticism and scholarly nature that never failed to make him a favorite for those that knew him. If the man had any failing, in his eyes at least, aside from his scary mother-hen personality, it was that the man was so easily flustered.

"Hey, that's mean. Come on, let's go look at the offerings. Who knows, you might find something interesting and cool. You know, like a mysterious treasure or maybe some super-secret magic item."

_**Dad.**__**You're not a kid anymore. Don't say things like that. That's just creepy and besides, who in their right mind would hide anything even remotely magical in trash heap like this?**_

"Oh you never know. I once found a really cool knife and throwing stars in sale like this one when I was a teen. You remember that one?"

_**Dad—**_

"Yeah, well, that's what sparked my interest in history and weapons, kit. I learned that the things I found where called a kunai and a shuriken and that they were weapons used by a specialized warrior class back in the early foundation of our history. It made me excited to discover something so cool and you know—pretty much that's the reason I became a teacher and started the business and well…"

_**Dad, you really can be such a spastic nerd sometimes.**_

"Hey! I resent that statement. Do you even know what spastic means?"

_**Dad, I am not going to have a vocabulary lesson with you. It's my summer break, and I refuse to learn anything scholarly within the next few weeks.**_

"Funny, that's the same argument you've been using on me since you started attending school and you've managed to use that same line of logic even when it's not your vacation."

_**Dad!** _He gave his smirking father a pout that grew even more pronounced when an amused chuckle greeted his ears. Sticking out his tongue at the man disdainfully, he stirred the conversation back into safer, if duller, territories before his temper gets a hold of him and ruin the day even further. _**Anyways, Dad, did you see anything you liked?**_

"Just a couple of books. Maybe a few scrolls. The owner of this sale used to go all over the Elemental Nations so there might be a ton of stuff here from different places. How about you? Did you see anything interesting?"

He gave a nonchalant shrug and gestured to the pieces up for auction with a quick flipping motion of his hand indicating indecision. He swept his eyes across the room and gave another small shrug.

_**Mah…well…**_

Iruka nodded and clapped a small hand on his shoulder encouragingly. "Well, if you see something, tell me. We can definitely get something for you. You haven't really been using your allowance for anything and you've helped a lot in the shop lately."

He gave a short nod. _**Thanks dad.**_

"Come on. Let's take a look around and size up the competition."

The statement made him snort and he gave a quick sequence of signs.

_**Dad, half the people here can't even compete for anything save being older than mold.**_

It amused him greatly to see his father sputtering in shock and stifling the chortle that threatened to erupt from his lips. Pushing back his glasses back against the bridge of his nose, Iruka gave his smirking son a chagrined look.

"Hey, what did I say about being mean?"

_**Just use signs when I do so no one can tell?**_

"Brat! Don't be such a smart mouth!"

_**Can't see that happening since I don't even use my mouth for that.**_

"You kit, has far too much cheek for one kid."

_**Says the man who raised me.**_

"That's why I know you. So come on, brat, help your old man score some treasure."

_**Yeah, Yeah.**_

One yeah is more than enough, thank you.

_**Dad!**_

_THUMP!_

The sight of a battered chest dropping unceremoniously unto the auction floor caused the two of them to break their unusual dialogue and pay attention once more to their surroundings. As one, they turned towards one of the auction house assistants—a young man who was quietly unpacking yet another crate that contained an item for the auction. Nimble gloved hands expertly wielded a crow bar that pealed back the thin wooden lathes and exposed the contents within.

To Iruka's surprise, instead of the usual dismissive snort, he found himself watching as his son gazed intently at the crate's content. Unaware of gaining his father's interest, his eyes stayed glued to the motion of the auction assistant as the young man brought out the prized content.

The crate contained a dingy, dilapidated chest that had seen better days. It seemed to have been made of some kind of combination of inlaid wooden tiles and small, darker pieces of what maybe lacquered material but however it may have looked before that condition has long been divorced from what it is now. The lacquer was cracked in so many places the piece looked it was a decoupage project done by an ADD-ridden kid gone glue wild. The wooden tile inlays that may have been used to form some kind of pattern or design was filled with more chipped pieces than not and thin wooden slivers embedded at random corners of the chest gave it a bloated look. There was no way to even see what the original design was or even if there was one.

The chest itself was intact—if you can call something that should be square once and now looked like a squashed up loaf intact. There was a shallow valley that was forced to be made between its flat peaks that created the loaf like image. Whatever it once held might as well be a dampened clump of mush based on the condition of the box that held it.

_It looks much like a box that got hand-chopped by something the size of a grizzly_.

And yet if he squinted his eyes just the tiniest bit, tilted his head to the side just a little bit he could, for a brief moment, he could picture quite clearly how the chest might've looked like before.

_Must've been a pretty box once…wonder what happened to it?_ Another glance made him snort. _Maybe the better question should be what didn't happen to it,_ he wondered ruefully. Clearly whoever owned it once didn't take proper care of the chest. Well, it could be that the chest met some unfortunate incident. It certainly looked like it took some hefty beating and battery for it to end up in such pathetic condition. An amused once-over at the auction hall made a tiny grin bloom on a small corner of his lips.

_They're practically the same age and condition as everything else that's up for sale in this place and just as crusty and ancient too. _

"That looks pretty interesting, don't you think so kit? Shall we make a bid?"

He felt the weight of Iruka's stare but for once, he didn't feel like being flippant. Sure, he knows that there wasn't much about the battered chest to draw attention and he couldn't for the life of him imagine anyone else wanting it, based on the utter disinterest its presence made in the ripple of people around him. But still, there was something about it that called to him and in a split second decision that he never realized would alter his fate, he looked at his father's russet gaze and gave a single decisive nod.

_Ah, well…if for nothing else, I could use something like that as a doorstop. Or when someone desperate and stupid enough tries to rob the shop I can definitely use it as a projectile. Either ways—can't hurt to find out._


	2. Dreamscapes

**Authors Note:**

Again as ever, standard disclaimer applies which means sadly that I am not the owner of _Naruto _or any other character affiliated with him or his friends. His awesomeness is the sole property of Kishimoto-sensei.

I have been going through a veritable rollercoaster ride of emotions regarding this story. Seriously—it's getting in the way of my reading. Ideas for it pop up at the most ridiculous of times that I am left with no recourse but to stoop to doodling and scribbling on paper odds and ends. Ridiculous, I tell you.

Now, regarding the story, it might be a bit slow but bear with me. I am trying to flesh out my story since this is my first foray into the SasuNaru thing that has taken over my life—okay, not quite my life—but a considerable portion of my sanity, for sure. I am trying to finesse my way into the beginnings of their relationship so please forgive me.

Shout out for the ones that gave me my first reviews: _SharinRaven876_ & thelovelywiltingrose. Thanks for giving my story a shot. Hopefully you will continue to read this.

Next portion of the story will come later in the week. I already have it half written and might post it in three days or so. Wish me luck.

* * *

**Chapter One: DREAMSCAPES**

"_**Don't want to let it lay me down this time.**_

_**Drown my will to fly.**_

_**Here in the darkness I know myself.**_

_**Can't break free until I let it go.**_

_**Let me go."**_

_- Evanescence, LITHIUM_

* * *

_Konoha_

_First Week of Autumn_

_"Today I celebrate the first year of my self-imposed exile. The first of many years, that much I am certain. I have dispensed with my responsibilities. I have given up my post and my badge of office. I have dispensed with the duties I owe to my name. No one can lay claim on me any longer. For the first time since I was born…I am finally free._

_**Free**__…the way I have never been. Ironic how that distinction makes such a difference to me now. Free…but…not complete. No…not complete. I doubt if I ever would be. _

_Today I received yet another visitor. Countless acquaintances and former comrades have come over the past months hoping to convince me…arguing and pleading with me…believing that they could change my mind. I wonder how long will they on believing that I would. How long before they all give up?_

_They all worry that I will suffer from the lack of companionship. I wish I had the words to reassure them that far from it—I am comfortable in the lack. I have grown used to the isolation that accompanied the choice I have made. I am used to my own company and silence never really bothered me. People come often enough to ask how I am feeling…do they think that I wouldn't know or that they could presume to tell me what I ought? Sometimes I wonder if the passing years could cure lasting idiocy_ _that seemed so prevalent among my kind and__ now I know for certain it couldn't. _

_It certainly never cured his._

_They don't mention his name…well save the brave few. They try to avoid it fearing that it would spark my infamous temper. They fear arousing my anger. It would've told them otherwise if it hadn't been so amusing at times._

_Contrary to what they all think and believe, I NOT am filled with anger—I have used up every ounce of anger worth ten lifetimes…so…no, there is no room for the burning heat of anger inside of me…not anymore. And neither am I paralyzed by regret for what I have done. Regret would've made me bitter and I have promised that if nothing else, I would not succumb to that._

_I promised him I would try to live out my life. I will not allow anyone, least of all myself—to break that promise._

_But I will not deny that it has been a trial and a study of patience…one I fear I have yet to conquer. A decade…that's how long it has been since I have seen him last. A full decade and yet even the passing of all those years has proven too short to dull the knife's edge on my memories but I have yet to feel the numbing effects of forgetfulness. At times I wonder if I would grow inured enough to finally welcome it. I have my doubts but one needs something to look forward to. To do otherwise is to despair and I cannot have that._

_Unlike most of my brethren who revels in discarding their past once they've been allowed to return, I fight viciously for every speck of emotion and memory that seemed to drain out of me with every breath, with every wasted chance. I cannot allow myself to forget._

_To do that would be a bigger betrayal than any I have done and the gods know I've had my share of betrayals to mark down the annals of time itself._

_His memories…my memories of him are all that I have left…I refuse to surrender yet another part of him to the whims of something as fickle as fate. I certainly have no intention allowing unknowing fools that dared to rule my existence to think that they have any say in the way I should live out the rest of my forsaken days when I played the part of an unknowing pawn for the sly machinations of men are over._

_But gods do I miss what I once had…What I had in foolishness and pride cast off until it was too late…to know that I have wasted every chance I've had to claim what heaven in its infinite naiveté has seen fit to gift me with. I hunger for the what-might-have-beens and all the things that the cruelty of man and destiny took from me that day. There are days when I wonder why I am still fighting against forgetting…nights when I wonder at the reason why I should even believe the memories screaming inside my head. But I am nothing if not stubborn. I cannot let him go…I do not think I will ever learn to do something like that ever… I will NOT let him go…_

_I yearn for a chance to be with him again…yearning for that impossible dream with a desire that burns deep inside of me...tell me cruel fate—will I never be free of this crushing loneliness…?"_

* * *

**NARUTO (18 Years Old)**

**Konoha, Present**

He woke with a start. Seemed like the only way he woke up these days. As his blood-shot eyes tried desperately to clear up the last cobwebs of sleep, he turned away from the light reflexively, never really liking the glare of the sun on his face nowadays. His body, much like his current mindset seemed determined to only find solace in dark, cold nooks and crannies…as if some part of him clung to the absence of light because it knew instinctively that what he sought could only be found in the darkness of consuming oblivion. _How_ he knew such a thing was not a question he tried to entertain much.

_**I will NOT let him go…**_

The words echoed over and over in his head even as consciousness crawled ever closer to the forefront of his mind..._taunting him...reminding him...calling to him_…beckoning him towards the kind of darkness he could never have imagined…never before fathom...the self-same darkness that seduces and enthralls him the moment he yields to exhaustion at the end of the day. The darkness that summons like a well-known lover of old, welcoming him within its embrace even as he ponders warily at the intimacy it offered so freely.

_**My memories of him are all that I have left…**_

He felt the grit dig deeper into the inner lining of his eyes causing it to water, forcing his already blood-shot eyes to close in pain as exhaustion started to lay claim on a body pushed far beyond its limits. He knows well enough that he has been pushing his limits but knows too, that he couldn't give up, not yet at any rate. And yet, even as he acknowledges the fact that his weary body needed respite desperately, something caused him to open his eyes against the very vocal complaints of his exhausted body, his gaze sharpening automatically until his blurry gaze focused and cleared on the glassed-enclosed knife he had placed carefully and lovingly on his desk, the sole decoration his room could lay claim to. Every space therein lost to the battle waged by papers and books that littered every corner of his chaotic bedroom. The morning light fell against the darkly shimmering _kunai, _gilding its edge in unforgiving, unyielding gold as it seemed to slice easily through the bright, brilliant ray of light.

_**Will I never be free of this crushing loneliness…?**_

He sighed, running cold, clammy hands through his matted and unpleasantly knotted hair, knowing that it has been days since he has last seen to his own comfort, lost as he always seemed to be amongst the pages that spoke in a tongue older than his own memories, desperately trying to piece together the history of someone whose very writing seemed to cry out in anguish with every written page, the author's pain becoming ominously his until the unknown writer's pain was entwined with his, their combined pain more real than even his own broken past. His eyes continued to burn with the itch of exhaustion and he lifted a shaking hand towards his face to massage the knot he just knew was already forming between his brows.

_No matter how much my logical side dictated that my immersion in my discovery was ruining any chances I have of finding a girlfriend, I couldn't stay away from it. I tried. I know that my research means something. I always end up coming back to it—that journal. The answers are in that journal, I just know it._

With a sigh and prayer that this time the light wouldn't stab him with agonizing pain, he gingerly lifted golden lashes and eased open his tortured eyes. His gaze fell on a corner of his room and he found himself frowning in chagrined disbelief.

What used to be an elegantly appointed suite now resembled more like a hobo dwelling—a paper obsessed one. By now he cannot even remember when the last time his apartment looked half-way livable let alone decent. At the moment it all but resembled the ruins of an old, dreary library run by a kid on sugar high and suffering severe ADD. Every square inch of the suite was covered by paper, every single one of his three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were crammed to the overflowing with scrolls and crumbling ancient texts, every horizontal surface—desk, chair, mantle was teeming with materials that have no definite pattern, his walls were papered with bright orange post-it notes in all shape and sizes crammed with his indecipherable script. The entire space was a testament that did little but invoke the feeling of utter chaos.

_Good Gods, how long has it been since I saw my own fucking room? It looks like a crate of books was deliberately detonated in here! All I need is single thoughtless spark from an outletor a kid with a magnifying glass aimed at my window when I'm too involved to notice and I would be roasted to a crisp with all these kindling around me. I would have an instant, self-prepared funeral pyre just waiting for the idiot sacrifice._

As his mind and senses slowly adapted to the demands of consciousness, he tried to piece together the latest installation of the uncanny series of dreams that haunted him since he could remember…the faces that started dogging his unconscious hours just days after he turned fourteen. The same dreams that his mind played over and over again since he picked up a battered chest in an estate auction.

_I knew that my dreams had some meaning behind it…just as well as I know that there was no way they could point out to something real…I was all too ready to rationalize that my nightly mental visitors could only come from the depths of my own imagination, brought on by my excessive love for arcane studies and ancient lore. I've always maintained the argument that my obsession was fueled by what I found the summer of my fourteenth year and that the reason it has persisted was due in fact to my own excessive imagination and stubbornness._ _I mean what kind of screw up dreams of deaths and wars and people you haven't met? I knew I should've insisted Dad had that damned chest carbon dated. I think that thing's been around since cavemen roamed the earth and that's why I was cursed. _

Running his hands through his disheveled mane once again he tossed aside the mountain of orange blankets that claimed ownership of his bed…padding barefoot across the worn and soft carpet he gingerly pushed aside the thick heavy drapes that blocked out most of the sun's light to open a window. The first brush of rain laden winds twined around his heated skin, instantly drawing out a soft moan from chapped, dried lips…and as soon as he turned his eyes fell on the thick, leather-bound journal on his night table. The antique journal that contained pages and pages of writings that caused him many a sleepless night, easily calling to mind vividly the very moment when it first came into his life and his possession.

* * *

_Flashback_

The bidding for the chest didn't occur until well into the night. Unfortunately for him and his dad, the chest that caught his fancy was among the very last lots held up for auction. By the time it came on the auction block, half the buyers were lost in slumber land and the other half were practically in some form of prune-juice induced coma. It didn't help that the auctioneer that day had a distinctively drawling speech that made even the most frenetic, enthusiastic bidding war sound pedantic and morose. With his eyes closing almost against his will in boredom and exhaustion, he gave in to the urge to close his eyes as his ears caught the faint pitter patter of rain as it struck the tall windows that surrounded the auction hall.

_Great. Just great. Even the weather is telling me its quitting time. But Dad won't let me back out now that we've waited for a while. 'sides I really want to know who owned it and what's inside. It better be worth the wasted hours._

The muted song of water droplets crashing against the unforgiving glass created a soothing backdrop against the cacophony of sighs and mutterings and whispers that passes itself of as conversation among the auction hall's denizens. Waiting for his desired item number was an exercise in patience, one he has had to learn and continued on learning over the years. With a quick sequence of gestures that informed his father of his intent to be informed when the chest was up the block, he slid further down into his seat, huddled deeper into the thick folds of his jacket and allowed the quiet symphony of rain to lull him into light nap. On hindsight, he should've just stayed conscious. It might've saved him a world of trouble. Because the moment he closed his eyes, that's when the problems began.

He fell into a deep, trance-like state unlike anything he has ever done or imagined before. Standing before him was a circle of figured, unknown, and unnamed but oddly not unfamiliar. Somehow, some part of him, in some deep dark oubliette of his mind, something inside him refused to feel any sort or anxiety or concern, rather, it insisted on soothing him like the unspoken, muted songs of a forgotten past that could be triggered at the oddest of times. Like the familiar, half-remember tuned hummed so sweetly during infancy's lullaby.

The faces seemed familiar—_**known**_. More so, there was that conviction that they should be known to him. But even more frightening than that persistent idea was the certainty that these faces—these people that surrounded him in a weird circle were _beloved_ to _**him**_—_precious_ to _**him**_ in ways he could not belie, deny or even counter. Whoever these strangers were—they knew him and he knew of them. They were important to him and they meant for him to remember who they were.

But how could he? Since his accident, his oldest memory could only stretch between the ages of four and twelve—everything else after that was a deep gaping black hole from which nothing escaped. He couldn't even recall how he ended up four months into a coma and unable to move or speak.

When the figures in the dream reached out, he found himself flinching back, flailing wildly in panic and waking up to the worried visage of his Iruka, gazing up at the man as he floundered like a landed trout from the floor of the auction house, his chair and many others toppled heedlessly around him as a strange voice—deep, ageless and infinite suddenly spoke from the depths of his already muddled mind:

"**I finally found you."**

_End Flashback_


	3. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Author's note:** Standard disclaimers applies. The characters I have been and will be employing belongs to the mad genius that is Kishimoto-Sensei.

That being said, may I pose a question of sorts? Should I write this using the first person perspective or the third? I could go either way, but opinions of those who will be reading matters just as well. Drop me a line before I do the next chapter so I will know. I have the outline already made for it. Just the perspective necessary to write it from. Toodles.

* * *

**Down the Rabbit Hole**

"_**Let me sleep**_

_**For me when I sleep I dream that you are here**_

_**You're mine and all my fears are left behind**_

_**So let me close my eyes…"**_

_Dream of Me_

* * *

_Naruto POV_

My name is Uzumaki Naruto, and for most of my life I have lived in Wave County. I know, with name like mine how do I deal with all the jokes that inevitably comes to mind. The jokes have come and gone through most of my life and even when I explained the real meaning behind my name, it didn't make things any better. Having a name that meant '_maelstrom_' certainly didn't work and effectively that '_fishcake_' when one considers I live in a place with the word '_wave_' in it.

If I had the ability I would've told my parents that maybe they should've thought things through before giving me such a controversial name but newborns never had much choice in names, consciousness doesn't come into being until it's much too late and never more so than for someone like me. I could've told them that my name doesn't inspire much when you're born with sunshine-bright blonde hair and eyes that rivaled sapphires.

I would've complained more had they not told me that they picked the name before I was even born. I would've been more incensed with that truth if they hadn't passed on and left me so soon. My name became one of the few mementos they left to me and I swore I would wear my name proudly.

I could still recall times when I fitted in—or as much fitting in an adopted kid with a trauma-induced impediment could without it being a tear-jerking sob-story. My background, much like everything else in my life, exists in a delicate balance of denial, self-preservation and resolve. I refuse to succumb to people's pity and I used whatever I had in my arsenal to achieve it. If I felt anger for the things that changed after the accident that stole much of my old life—I never bothered to look for it. It was hard enough trying to piece together a new life. I couldn't do it while dragging my old one with it.

The time when the world made sense and I still belonged amongst the ordinary mediocre folks that populate the world ended when I lost my parents and my home. All I have now is Iruka and for that one fact I am thankful.

So what if my adopted father loves old stuff and books. After the accident, I was thankful for Iruka's retiring ways and quiet lifestyle. It was a sanctuary I needed more than I needed therapy or medicines. I needed his serenity more than I needed air back then. I cherished Iruka's simplicity and devotion to the things he was passionate about. Even when it's something as ordinary and mundane as preferring things that are medieval, molding and in ruins. So what if his adopted father's idea of adventure was going to estate sales and auctions?

At least it's distracting and didn't give much time to wallow in self-pity. It certainly allowed me to forge a life that had meaning and direction in it. It made me feel whole and for the longest time that was all I ever recall wanting.

I have no claim to fame. I have no unique gift of talent or intelligence to be proud of—my grades being quite ordinary. I work part-time in an old and totally obscure shop that deals with small antiques, reproductions and old books together with my adopted father and a perverted eccentric of an owner. That is to say I am the shops general factotum: I do the leg work that falls under the grey area of real scholastic work. I handle shipping whenever I am free; I trace providence for the small antiques that we find in estate sales and flea markets that would gain no interest other than with those who deal with kitsch and odd knickknacks or two.

Maybe that's the reason I took ancient art and history as my major in college. I like discovering old things and finding their origin. I also dabble in restorations whenever I can. And despite the rougher periods in my life, for the most part through it all I found myself content. You could say I have found my niche in life. I was happy, I had a job that interests me and I finally managed to gain a semblance of normalcy once again. I was well on the day way to full mundane mediocrity and a life destined to be filled with nothing but predictable dullness when I stumbled across a chest that contained an old journal. After that nothing in my life was ever the same again.

_**(Flashback)**_

_That night, that time—I woke up from my nap with a shudder and a gasp, nearly shooting out of the flimsy chair I was slumped in before common sense and the light grip on my arm stayed my body from its instinctive flight._

_My eyes—wild and wary from the lingering traces of discordant grasp of dreams darted all around—eager to find an avenue to escape from something I couldn't even remember only know when my gaze fell upon a pair of worried cinnamon eyes. All at once everything inside of me halted into stillness. Serenity flooded my veins, calming the wild tattoo of my beating heart. I could literally feel the tension that gripped my entire frame ease into relaxation like a carefully deflated balloon. I took a deep breath and tried to will away the remaining anxiety that riddled my sleep-languid body._

_I concentrated on controlling my breath and continued to hold those self-same cinnamon eyes captive, ignoring the worried question lingering in their depths as I used their familiar sight to center myself, grounding my mind and body until I could no longer remember why I was so anxious in the first place and the last vestiges of those disturbing dreams faded into forgetfulness._

_"Are you okay? What happened Naru?"_

_I shook my head and reached up a hand to rub at my nape in chagrin. Now that I am in full control once more of my faculties, I couldn't help but feel the warmth creeping up on my cheeks and embarrassment flooding me at my distressing display of nerves. Way to act like a complete dork. Quickly I rattled off a set of signs to dispel the concern reflected in Iruka's eyes._

**Bad dream, I think. Sorry, did I scare you?**

_"No, but I was worried something was happening to you when you suddenly grew cold beneath my hands. Are you okay?"_

**I'm okay now. Just tired I guess.**

_"We can go now if you want. I'm sorry I dragged you into this—!"_

**It's fine Dad. I don't mind. And we're already here.**

_"But you're tired and it is late—!"_

**Dad, you're dithering again. I'm fine. Just a stupid dream and I can't even remember it anymore.**

_"But—!"_

**By the way, is my chest up on the block?**

_My eyes looked towards my adopted father, trying to see if my actions would make him suspicious enough to belie my words and I felt relieved when Iruka simply sighed and shook his head. I gazed at the raised dais and watched the auctioneer reel off another sale. My heart beat quickened when I saw the next number up and I quickly tapped my father to call his attention back to the auction that will be done for my chest. I would need him to make the bids for me and we settled for a base amount. I figured ten dollars would be a decent start up for my chest. I could always go for a bit more, but I don't want to overspend unnecessarily, if I could help it._

Hang on, why do I keep referring to it as my chest? Great…I'm becoming one of them.

_A quick scan around the room made me grin. If I could base my bids on the faces of the people still lingering in the hall, I could see myself gaining the chest for close to a steal. Everyone looked at the lot like it was a waste of time, let alone interest. There were barely ten people paying any notice on the item on the auction block including my father and me._

Perfect. No one else but me wants it. Just the way it should be. It's mine anyways.

_If the thought and conviction disturbed me back then, it never registered fully to my conscious mind. I didn't even pause long enough to wonder why I was so certain that the chest rightfully belonged to me. All that I know was that it was. And all I could care or be conscious of at the time was the need to have the bidding done and over with. He couldn't relax until he was certain he would walk away with his chest in tow._

I have to hold on to it. This time around, I have to make sure it stays mine. Wait—what the hell am I thinking? When do I get possessive of things I've only just seen?

_Shaking off the disturbing idea, I concentrated on the auction about to take place. The auctioneer started by reeling off the patent spiel of providence but he might as well have saved his breath. No one was listening. Well, except for my brown haired self-confessed bookworm of a father and his bright haired teenage companion and I seriously think I hardly count in the auctioneer's eyes and so he proceeded to end the sale as quickly as possible._

_When someone made a desultory bid for twenty-five cents, something inside of me snapped. Sure I wanted it for a steal but it didn't mean I wanted something someone would insultingly bid a quarter on. I mean for the love of antiquity—that wouldn't amount wouldn't even buy a cup of ramen and everyone knows ramen is tantamount to ambrosia in my mindset. Some folks just shouldn't be allowed to bid. A quick sign to Iruka and I heard him make a bid for ten dollars. I could feel the room's disdain sweep over me like a proverbial wave but I ignored it like everything else that didn't matter much to me. I've gotten immune to stares that convey anything less than pleasant thoughts. Nothing in these old farts' eyes could faze me. I know what they were all thinking—amateur…fool…**newbie**._

Only goes to show what you know, you old farts. Jerk-offs wouldn't know what was good unless it came close enough to rattle their wigs and dentures.

_The auctioneer ended the nearly non-existent bidding with unusual alacrity and simply awarded the item to Iruka, fearing the loss of a better than expected revenue for what he clearly thought was a disposable item._

Penny-pinching cheapskates! What in the hell do they think they are bidding on? **A quarter?!** They bid on his chest for a measly quarter? Doddering old windbags! Just because it's all smooshed and not covered in mold doesn't mean it's worthless!

_I recall dragging Iruka immediately to the backstage where all auctioned off items were being handed out to their buyers. I dug into my pocket for the ten that would make me the legal owner of my battered, smooshed up chest, paying no mind to the speculative look that my Dad threw my way. I know he was surprised that I paid out of my own pocket since he knew well enough that I had no problem making other people pay for me when I feel like it._

_But somehow, I had to secure the chest with my own funds, my own hands. It nearly took all my patience to explain to the auction helpers what I wanted when I told them to place my chest in a crate so that I can cart it back safely to the car without it getting drenched. I knew from their grins that they thought I was nuts trying to protect something that's already been damaged beyond any hope but I insisted and Iruka managed to talk them into humoring me, even going so far as to have my battered chest wrapped in bubble wrap to ensure that the rain wouldn't be able to seep through._

_The night I brought it home, the eccentric owner of the shop we worked in was around. The old man took one look at the way I cradled the crate close to my body and shook his head. But for a second there, I swear he had the oddest look of excitement and resignation in his slate grey eyes._

_It took me a total of seven days, six hours and ten minutes to pry the chest open. It also took the help of a few friends, grumpy advice from the perverted eccentric I call a boss, one long lecture from my father during every single meal and one memorable bath, a couple of unplanned trip to the library, a pick, tweezers, pliers, two broken nails and countless cups of ramen before my stubborn, dilapidated chest finally yielded its secrets. And the prize among them was an old journal wrapped in a tough black canvas sack._

_Buried at the very bottom of the chest it would've continued to languish in utter desolation if not for my complete and utter clumsiness. And when I finally withdrew it from its resting place, I did the most asinine thing of yanking it out, resulting in wounding myself on the protruding end of the book's spine…the seemingly harmless bookend turning out to be an ancient dagger concealed within the book's spine and made finally noticeable by the worn ends._

_For some reason, despite my father's profession of being a restorer and my years of being surrounded by fragile, manuscripts and repeatedly reminded that I should handle one with care and from behind the protective shield of a pair gloves—all of that warning and training faded from my mind. All I had was the compelling need to touch the journal with my bare hands and feel the reality of it._

_The diary was hand-written with a deep black ink and pale thin pages so fragile that I was afraid a single touch of my hand would've reduced it to a pile of worthless dust. But the paper it was written on was surprisingly resilient, as was the ink used by whoever owned it because the writing was as crisp as anything newly written. The calligraphy was flowing and clean, each character fully formed and executed with a firm flawless hand. There were notations, some small illustrations even. What it didn't have however, was the owner's name. And somehow I knew I just had to discover who it was._

_**(End Flashback)**_

**Going down memory lane again huh?**

_Ugh…not again…_

**What is that supposed to mean?**

_I thought I got rid of you in therapy…_

**Well assume that it was an exercise in futility again…**

_Why the hell did I waste all that money then…_

**Call it good old fashioned supply and demand.**

_I'm not a commodity…_

**Neither is your sanity but you paid a two-bit hack to tell you a load of psychobabble that YOU actually thought would help…**

_Don't start with me…_

**I didn't….you're the one moaning out there.**

_I just said I missed the wind…you're the one that mentioned a random him again…_

**I was just voicing out my thoughts…**

_Go away…_

**Like I could…why won't you just accept it?**

_Because it's not real! It can't be real! You are not real! And I refuse to believe what you're telling me…I know my head's banged up already but I am not insane enough to believe in that nonsense you're spouting or anything else you have to say!_

**You will …soon…**

I rubbed my fingertips against my temple. These conversations with myself started at the same time as the day that blasted chest came into my life. Once I had it opened and found the journal within, it was as if another _**me**_ woke up after I started reading it and it was a part that was ironic, mouthy and fearless. It was an annoying voice that occasionally gave its opinion when I least wanted it to.

I could not recall when I first started forgetting that there was a different world beyond the pages of the journal I found that summer I turned fourteen. I only know that after reading it for the first time I woke haunted by thoughts that were not my own with faces and names whirling inside my brain like a broken down record that didn't know what else to play.

I grew more addicted to the voice of the write more and more…certain of the truth that I could no longer deny that I was meant to find that journal. I couldn't explain it to anyone else…just as I couldn't explain why I decided to pursue my studies focusing on something as inexplicable as art and historical antiquities for college. God knows everyone bet I would skate by using either a sports related scholarship or something in communications considering the ironic twist of fate that made people realize I'm quite the motivational speaker when prodded or nagged hard enough.

Still I never realized how intense my obsession has become until Iruka and my friend pointed out that I was dangerously close to injuring my health due to my unhealthy habit of forgetting every time I took the journal in hand. I had to admit defeat and allowed them to monitor me, cognizant of my own folly and still unable to do anything except move forward, knowing that there is nothing for me to go back to, nothing left for me to do but to continue on. And so I struggled to create a semblance of normalcy within my obsession. I sought for varied work that will force me out of my room and the steadying companionship of those that were aware of my limitations and my tendency to _'lose myself_' for days on end. There are some days when I can actually convince myself that this was a rewarding, contended existence. On most days I fail but I have learned to persevere.

Once during one of my darker days when the frustration of the journal and the anniversary I hated more than anything came to head, I spoke to Iruka about my fears that everything in my life seemed destined to be a miserable failure. Iruka took him out for ramen and then proceeded to me that there must be a reason I was the one who found the journal—that no one could've spent such energies pursuing such an impossible task—well, at least no one else but me. He said that the journal just might be what I needed to find my path in life.

A few years have passed and since then I've found less than what I wanted regarding the journal but I haven't given up yet. Nameless it may be, there are still plenty of clues for me to work with. Someday, I know I'll uncover the secrets not just behind the journal but the chest it came in and everything that was in it.

Taking a deep breath, I picked up the journal and settled once more on one of the aged armchairs that were in my room, hoping against hope that this time around I could simply read the words and not be drawn it. That this time I would keep even a semblance of my own thoughts rather than fall prey to the spell of a world that's not my own—couldn't have been my own no matter how familiar everything felt whenever I would dive into its pages.

But even as I carefully turn the aged pages, hardening my resolve and swearing up and down that I would not be sucked in, it only took a few sentences before everything else around me to fade out and recede into the background, falling away from my consciousness as I allowed the words to weave around me once more, drawing me into another time, another world.

And yet, deep in the very recesses of my mind I pray the nightmares to come end and for answers to finally yield to me. I prayed that when I turn the next page, I will find the answers I seek and sanity to regain its foothold on my tortured mind and battered body. I wish for me to know once more the sweet perfume of freedom.

You could say I literally fell into this waking nightmare of an fixation…and I have yet to find a way out...what scares me more is the fact that I am really one-hundred percent sure that a significant part of me doesn't want to.


End file.
